


Maelstrom

by sinstralpride



Category: Jumper
Genre: Breathplay, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-14
Updated: 2010-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-06 06:40:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinstralpride/pseuds/sinstralpride
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was art for Griffin.</p><p>Companion to "Conflagration"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maelstrom

**Author's Note:**

> I felt that "Conflagration" didn't really give a complete picture, and I wanted to show just how far they've been pushed over the edge. So here is something that is possibly MORE dark and twisted than the first part. The image of David as a gasper just wouldn't leave me alone, it seemed so... fitting for the David I'd portrayed in the last piece, and this Griffin was happy to oblige.
> 
> Companion to "Conflagration." They can both stand alone.

He liked pressing scorching metal to hollow hip, liked the way David arched and hissed but never pulled away. Always the same place. The more David needed him, the more he became Griffin’s only salvation. The more he became his.

 

There was so much more to this than fire, and Griffin reveled in the moments when David was most vulnerable, when he gave himself completely over. Despite what he was [murderer, his mind screamed] David trusted him.

 

Maybe he didn’t value his life.

 

He’d throw David to the cold, stone floor of the bathroom and make him suck his cock as the bathtub filled, feeling him tremble as the water slowly rose. If he was a good little cocksucker, Griffin might turn on the hot water to cut the icy chill. When David was particularly bad, Griffin _knew _he wanted the cold.

 

He liked David on his knees. Hands braced on the precipice, spine curved so invitingly, shoulder blades jutting out like shards of broken glass. He curled his fingers tightly in soft golden hair, out of place under sterile fluorescent light, and harshly thrust home. The shuddering wail the echoed coldly on the tile told him David liked it too.

 

It was art for Griffin. Knowing when to make him wait, how hard to fuck him on the dirty floor, how much he could take. How long to hold him under the surface, one hand just below the shoulder blades to force him to the edge, the other digging into David’s scalp as he thrashed. How slow the struggling would get when it was just long enough. He thrust long and deep as he pulled him back, sputtering and gasping, by a cruel handful of hair, arching his back obscenely. He liked the pitiful mewling noises he made as he fought to catch his breath. But he _loved_ the way David was eager to do it again.

 

Sometimes the water wasn’t enough, it needed a little more. Those days he used his hands. More intimate, more in control. Delicate flutter at the hollow of David’s throat, carefully not obstructed with precise placement of fingers. He was no amateur.

 

That familiar raspy wheeze was a sick lullaby, his fingers playing the chords on soft flesh. He knew David heard the song by the faraway look in his eyes in the mirror placed for just such moments, and the sleepy smile that never seemed to fade, no matter how tightly he squeezed.

 

Of all the games they played, this was his favorite.

 

The bruises left on David’s pale flesh were testament to those days. Livid purple across his chest from the cruel edge of the tub. Knees abraded from relentless abuse. Gryphon brand on his hip, teeth marks on his inner arm, long scores down a lean stomach gaunt from self-loathing. Pretty lips and a broken smile, skin finally _real,_ not some fantasy of perfection. Regal necklace of penance and absolution, subtly twining around David’s throat. His canvas.


End file.
